Poisonous city blanket
of dirt above a million heads
she's speaking to the birds
spoken words
white hair
form
concentric rings - suspend needs - endless
in a fluttering of wings.
She sits on a cold bench
in touch with the warm confusion
spiraling up
with Earth's rules easily broken
spiraling down
with roots deeper
into molten truth
- intuitive -
Lifts hands
bread crumbs
flown into the air
stop
the race against emptiness
that goes on
behind windows
That's how she feeds
in a fraction of freedom
emotions pure with gestures
like temples - desinstitutionalized
She travels lightweight
with fragile bones
revealing the column of light
the only counterweight
to the industrious weight
of loss.
In my mind, I'm mingling Miss Jane Marple with Mary Poppin's "bird woman". There is the doing-- gentle kindness-- and the wisdom in seeming madness.
My favorite part:
"She sits on a cold bench
in touch with the warm confusion
spiraling up
with Earth's rules easily broken
spiraling down
with roots deeper
into molten truth"
I love that juxtaposition of spiraling upward, and roots digging deep. But mostly, I love it because of "warm confusion"-- a wonderful word combo--new and full of imagery.
"lightweight with fragile bones...
counterweight to the industrious weight of loss."
What a terrifying plight falls to the lone elderly whose "life" is past, and loss is a daily bread of regrets, or remembrances..."lifting hands into the air." (Is this not what we all come to?)
Poignant and true.
Regards, Rick A.
Why do I feel hope within this write? Is it because there is one sane person who gets it still out there? With her fragile bones and infirmiries you spreads love and nuture around. Awesome. Liz
I hope I pictured her well. Oh, to be able to paint!
Ron
Reviewed by Gianetta Ellis (Reader)
Reviewed on December 23, 2008
There is much to ponder here. I find myself drawn to the image of this woman finding a sort of companionship beyond that which other humans can provide. I read your words "with Earth's rules easily broken" and immediately sense that this is an illusion. Natural laws always find their recourse in time. Humans' sense of "dominion" is misplaced and misunderstood. I am also drawn to your words "the race against emptiness that goes on behind windows." Will we ever realize that we have created both the race and the emptiness and the walls that support these windows, which themselves are often "blinded" so that they cannot serve the purpose for which they were intended? And, of "fraction of freedom" - how this might be broadened and made whole through our will, through an unyielding desire to seek completeness and not settle for anything less - as indivduals and as a culture. Finally, I like Sheila Roy's notion that this woman is "only seen by those who read this poem; those who pass her take no notice."
Axilea,
This seems to branch straight to the intended spirit of Christmas. You paint this scene so well. I can't help but feel as though this woman is only seen by those who read this poem; those who pass her take no notice. The first line is very powerful to start this sad scene - it speaks volumes. Have a Merry Christmas:)
Sheila
Inspirational poetry, written from the heart and soul. Verses that are well-suited for reading on a rainy day and that are guaranteed to bring a smile to your face.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
My favorite part:
"She sits on a cold bench
in touch with the warm confusion
spiraling up
with Earth's rules easily broken
spiraling down
with roots deeper
into molten truth"
I love that juxtaposition of spiraling upward, and roots digging deep. But mostly, I love it because of "warm confusion"-- a wonderful word combo--new and full of imagery.
--Charlie
With love,
Cindy
"...endless
in a fluttering of wings."
that reach
"spiraling up
with Earth's rules easily broken
spiraling down
with roots deeper
into molten truth
to
stop
the race against emptiness
that goes on
behind windows
"...with gestures
like temples - ..."
Especially enjoyed the paradoxical play of words in:
She travels lightweight
with fragile bones
revealing the column of light
the only counterweight
to the industrious weight
of loss.
all this from a lady feeding pigeons. Must be poetry.
- David
Regis
counterweight to the industrious weight of loss."
What a terrifying plight falls to the lone elderly whose "life" is past, and loss is a daily bread of regrets, or remembrances..."lifting hands into the air." (Is this not what we all come to?)
Poignant and true.
Regards, Rick A.
lines:
the race against emptiness
that goes on
behind windows
-gene.
Ron
This seems to branch straight to the intended spirit of Christmas. You paint this scene so well. I can't help but feel as though this woman is only seen by those who read this poem; those who pass her take no notice. The first line is very powerful to start this sad scene - it speaks volumes. Have a Merry Christmas:)
Sheila
hugs
fee